Not Just Blood
by FINAL BOSS BOKUT
Summary: In Solomon's Temple, Malik wants nothing more than to let himself die alongside Kadar.


**oops**  
><strong>so i started replaying AC1<strong>  
><strong>Kadar is a sweet young man, game graphics and lack of screen time be damned<br>but my AC1 crush is definitely Malik, so  
>i needed something depressing to write them both into, say hello to Solomon's Temple and the aftermath<strong>

sorry if Malik's OOC (hahaha omg he probably is) but the only AC character I've written for prior to this is Yusuf and some Ezio and Altair. I did a drabble while ago with little!Altair and little!Malik, but it was more Altair-centric than anything, and they were both kind of brats.

* * *

><p>This wasn't supposed to happen.<p>

In fact, just about everything could have gone wrong had done just that. Screams melded together, and most of the time he couldn't tell if they were his or Kadar's. Accompanied were the loud, raucous laughs of their Templar tormentors, and the sickening, wet sound that a sword makes as it slices into flesh.

Malik, at the time, had been so focused on protecting Kadar and keeping the mounting combination of pain, panic, and adrenaline at bay that he didn't notice much. When a blade cleaved into is arm, cutting down into the bone, he wrenched it out and barely noticed the wave of numbness that washed over the limb as he watched his younger brother be cut down, right in front of his eyes.

He had collapsed, then, black spots dancing in his vision and feeling as if someone had just torn out a piece of his very soul. One soldier sneered and nudged the other, saying something about rejoining with Robert, but Malik didn't hear. Altair had abandoned them, Kadar was dead, and now he was alone.

The eldest, and now only, Al-Sayf brother felt dizzy and faintly ill. He wanted nothing more than to die there, on that cold stone, with Kadar. Pain had flooded through the numbness in sharp bursts, becoming so frequent that there was no pause, and his arm felt as if it was on fire, only minutely worse than the rest of his aching body.

Dark eyes slid closed in a sort of resignation, a deep breath comping from split, bloody lips. He had failed the vow he had made to his father, to _himself_, so many years ago. He had failed to protect Kadar.

But, he had an obligation to the Order, didn't he, that extended far beyond blood. He owed it to Al Mualim and his brothers in arms to complete this mission, though not explained, obviously important.

Malik dragged himself upwards, unsteady and swaying on his feet, bloodied and half dead already. He pointedly kept himself from even glancing at Kadar's body, afraid that his weak resolve would shatter if he did so, and his gaze was drawn upwards to the shining artifact that Robert de Sable's men had failed to collect.

* * *

><p>It was only after he returned, riding for nearly a full day with the golden sphere clutched in his hand, did Malik allow himself to absorb the full shock of Kadar's death, and his fury at Altair's part (or lack thereof) in it.<p>

Malik, along with the healers and many others, were clueless as to how he had survived such a long journey in such a pitiful state. Any other man would have bled himself out in less than half the time, but yet, somehow he survived- with the exception of his left arm.

Now, laying on a cot in the hospital wing, staring listlessly at the ceiling and allowing his mind to wander to avoid the horrid throbbing and phantom pains, the assassin let himself think. Kadar was gone, wasn't coming back. It hurt almost physically, far more painful than any of his other wounds, than having his arm sawed off and the skin cauterized. Kadar was all he had, his only link to a life far gone, his constant companion.

His eyes burned with unshed tears and he found it hard to swallow, but Malik refused to let himself cry. It was one thing to scream and sob yourself raw when going through and operation as he had, but a completely different one to do so over such base emotions.

Though, not only did he withhold himself to save face and keep what little pride he still had intact. He feared that if he cried, he wouldn't be able to stop.


End file.
